Utterly vulnerable.

Not when he’s going to send me home.

Still gripping the chair so hard I’m sure my nails have left a mark, I watch, breathing hard as Rush drags slow, wet kisses all the way up my belly, my ribs, suckling at the tip of each breast before lifting his head and facing me.

His gaze bears down on me. Those incredible green eyes eating me up like he just ate my pussy. He looks lethal and beyond sexy. “Where’s your friend?” he asks me, though it comes out as more of a growl.

“Hotel,” I mutter.

I’m dying—DYING—to reach out and yank down his zipper like he yanked down mine, but when I do, when I try, he stops me. He puts a hand over mine and steps away.

Just that small rejection makes my insides bleed. He can touch me, pleasure me, make me come, but he doesn’t want my hands anywhere near him.

He reaches for my tank top, hands it to me. “Put this on. No bra.”

My hands are shaking from my orgasm and from my anger, but I do as he asks.

When the tank is over my head, he moves back into my airspace and cups one of my breasts through the thin fabric. Instantly, my back arches and I lean into his touch. As he runs his thumb over the hard tip, I tell myself I have no shame.

His nostrils flare and he looks at me with hooded eyes. “Do you want to go back to your friend, Addison?”

“No,” I say without a moment’s hesitation.

He grabs my bra and shoves it in his back pocket. “Good answer.”

She’s fucking unraveled me again. Screwed with my head again. Made me not only want her ass more than I’ve ever wanted it, but made me believe that maybe—shit, just maybe—there’s a possibility for…something. Clearly, I’m mentally fucked, because instead of putting her on the back of my bike and dropping her wherever she and her friend are hanging their hats, I put her on the back of my bike and set a course for home.

She’s wearing my helmet, and her arms are wrapped so tightly around my torso I sort of can’t breathe. But I don’t give a shit. The moon is full, stars are blinking hard and bright, we’re alone on the desert road, and I just can’t get there fast enough. Get my mouth on hers fast enough. Get my tongue back inside her fast enough. It’s a real fatal flaw with me.

My mom knew it. Knew I had no business slowing down. She named me Rush because of how I was born. I was her first baby, and I guess they say that first babies take forever. Not me. Twenty minutes from home to hospital to in her arms. And from that day on, it’s how I’ve lived my life.

As I take a tight curve, Addison squeals behind me and clings to my back like a terrified monkey. I could slow down, if I was a nice guy. Or shit, I could pull over to the side of the road, let her breathe for a second. But that might bring about some trouble. I’d probably be inclined to turn around and have her straddle me, wrap her legs around me as I drop her zipper again. And mine. Shit, we don’t need to get all the way naked. Not for me to slip inside. I know how wet she gets. I can still taste it.

I narrow my eyes and kick the chopper into high gear. I must be a fucking lunatic to be doing this. Or a masochist. Or shit, maybe both. But it’s been a dream of mine to have her at my place. Have her see it, walk around inside it. Without ever knowing that she was who I thought about when I designed it.

I pull off the main road onto a dirt one that stretches up a ways and meets with my actual driveway. I bought this piece of land on the second anniversary of Wicked Ink. We’d been doing really well, and I’d been dying for something all my own, deep in the desert. It took a good year to build the contemporary stone, metal and glass structure, but it was worth the wait.

I kill the engine under the steel carport, then wait for Addison to slip off before following her. She already has my helmet off by the time I face her, and it’s like holding back a bull when I see her bright eyes, flushed cheeks and sexy, just-fucked hair.

But her eyes aren’t on me, they’re combing the exterior of my house.

“Oh, Rush,” she breathes, sounding so entranced I feel a fucking kick in my heart muscle. “You designed this. I can tell.”

I don’t say a word. I think my throat’s not working right. Or maybe it’s my lungs. I just take her hand and lead her inside the house. My gut is doing the knot dance again because as she stares at all the glass and metal, brick and stone, I wonder if she likes it or is overwhelmed by it. The place is pretty modern, maybe even cold to some.

Standing in the center of the living room, staring out the wall of glass doors leading to the view of the Red Rocks in the distance, she turns to look at me. “It’s beautiful.”

The knot inside me unravels instantly and I find myself grinning like an asshole. I take her around, show her every inch of my digs, preen like a douche every time she oohs and aahs over my shit. God damn, I don’t want to be this guy, this guy who feels giddy-ass relief that his girl approves of his pad. Because A: I shouldn’t give a shit. And B: She’s not my girl anymore.

We end up in the kitchen and I remember she’s a guest and not a permanent resident who knows her way around and has equal control over the fridge and its contents.

“You want something to drink?” I ask, grabbing the handle and pulling the stainless door open to see what I got.

“Sure.” Addison leans against the counter all casual. She looks good in here, like she already belongs or something.

My hand tightens around the handle. “Nothing with alcohol for you.”

“Hey, hey,” she says on a laugh. The sound echoes through my house. I wonder idiotically if it’ll stick around, maybe cling to the walls after she leaves.

“I’m over twenty-one, man,” she continues. “Granted, it’s just one year over. But that’s legal.”

“Alcohol can do funny things.”

“No doubt. Some of the shit I’ve see at school…”

“I’m talking about tats.” I stare into the fridge, not seeing a damn thing, my skin going tight around my muscles. “Don’t want the area to start bleeding. It’s not likely, but I’m not taking any chances.”

“Aww, you’re such a caring guy.”

I close the fridge with just a little too much force and turn to face her. “No. I’m not.”

Her brows shoot together and she pushes away from the counter. Her happy face, and that sexy but casual body language—both of which I seriously want to bottle and keep in my upstairs safe—go rigid.

“Okay, what just happened?” she asks, shaking her head at me, her eyes confused. “We were chilling. Had a back and forth that was easy and light, and…” She shrugs. “You turn dark again. What’s going on, Rush? Did you bring me here to fight?”

My body flares up and my dick knocks at my zipper. Why did I bring her here? Was it because after tasting her back at the office, I needed more? I needed all of her? Or was it something besides that?

As I try to work out what I’m feeling, what I’m doing, my freaking intentions, my jaw goes so goddamn tight I’m worried about something snapping in there.

She takes a step toward me. “Rush…”

I back up like she’s made of fire. “Don’t want to fight.”

“Okay, good.” She nods. “Then what’s up?”

“What’s up?” I repeat, sounding a little manic. “Jesus…I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Why?”

My eyes lock with hers. I’m going off the rails. I can feel it. Why did she have to do this? Come back here and start shit up again? Make me want her? Make me remember how I’ve never stopped.

“Will you talk to me, please?” she says.

“I brought you here because I wanted to show you…” Fuck! I start, but can’t finish. Because I’m a pussy. Because her eyes are trying to burrow into my chest and take a look at my heart.

“Show me what?” she pushes.

I turn away, walk away, head for the doors and for the Red Rocks beyond. I contemplate smashing the glass to bits, even though I can just open the fucking thing if I want out. It’s just…I don’t want her to peer inside of me. I don’t want her to see that once-wrecked muscle because she’ll see that it’s no longer wrecked. That it’s starting to look right and maybe open up a little.